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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673019">a hole in the earth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/literarygirl/pseuds/literarygirl'>literarygirl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Background Character Death, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Language of Flowers, Silver Snow Route, The ominous presence of Edelgard and Hubert lingering in the background</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:53:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,356</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673019</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/literarygirl/pseuds/literarygirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Perhaps she cowered in the brush, sick for home—and cowers now, hiding away from her peers—because she does not yet have the tools necessary to step into the sunlight in full.</p><p>No, Edelgard von Hresvelg does not need lessons.</p><p>There is, however, someone else who does."</p><p> </p><p>(Ferdinand learns the language of flowers, is humbled, and pines.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ferdinand von Aegir/Bernadetta von Varley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fernadetta Week</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. sweet viola</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>written for Fernadetta Week 2020, for the flowers prompt! dedicated to my most wonderful girlfriend and beta reader sami, who has put up with me complaining about ferdinand for the past several months.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>I.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Once the matter of Hrym county had been settled—by blood, despite Ferdinand’s great wishes to the contrary—there is the matter of House Ordelia. Twilight had all but settled, too late for afternoon tea, but the trappings of sweet cakes and honeyed brew was the price to pay for Lysithea’s solemn attention for an evening. After dining hall chatter becomes but a distant echo, they sit together, tucked at the end of a table that has seen generations of parishioners, students, tradesmen, knights, and now… them.</p><p>Soldiers, on a technicality. Barely adults, in truth.</p><p>It is hard not to feel a <em>little</em> wistful, although Ferdinand would perhaps reach for a different word to describe the hairs standing at the back of his neck and the dread ache in his gut.</p><p>It is hardly good manners, but for the majority of their quiet conversation, his hand rests against his chin, knuckles curled, his elbow on the edge of the table. His teaspoon makes laps around the rim of his cup, never quite spilling over the lip onto the saucer, but enough to obscure the poor reflection he cuts.</p><p>Lysithea, for her part, doesn’t seem to mind. Her lips remain pursed, brow stays furrowed, and if she’s concerned at all about his table manners, her gaze gives no indication.</p><p>His posture gets worse for wear as she speaks, but Ferdinand does his part not to wear every emotion with his manners. He asks questions at their proper time, nods or shakes his head with a gentle <em> No, I did not</em>, as punctuation. He takes the inquiries seriously, of course, but there is a noticeable shift as his tone gets softer with every subsequent word spoken.</p><p>To call this embarrassment would be juvenile; Ferdinand can handle embarrassment with grace, or has, at the very least, learned to swallow every single ounce of his pride if it means he is useful to efforts on the ground and in the war room. He has had to bow his head and apply his armor restoration hobby to practicality; he has bowed it several more in preparation to roll up his sleeves and try his hand at mending coats and salting meat.</p><p>This is not embarrassment. This is an <em> oversight</em>. Were the tables turned, were he Lysithea staring down the slumped shoulders and hair hastily pulled back out of his face, he would be livid.</p><p>To her credit, Lysithea’s not been livid, only severe. Pitying, at times, when the furrow of her brow smooths in stolen glances upward. Ferdinand surely deserves much worse.</p><p>At some point, the conversation falls to a trickle. Lysithea pushes crumbs around on the plate in front of her. She remembers to drink the tea, because junior though she may be—it’s a useless distinction, now, but he cannot help but mean it gently, as she wears her youth well despite sallow skin and gray streaks underneath her eyes—Lysithea von Ordelia is not, by any stretch of the word, an embarrassment to all she stands for.</p><p>Ferdinand, at least, knows he cannot sink lower. To be the embarrassment of House Aegir, he would have to be his father’s son; something shifts within him to remember that he is no one’s son, now, and that the fool’s crown by default rests upon his downturned head.</p><p>“You… really didn’t know.” Lysithea never seems satisfied with her conclusions, but there is a certain finality to her soft statement.</p><p>“No, I did not,” he says once more, much like he were reciting a prayer, and this time he means it with finality. Lysithea’s patience finally trickles to her wit’s end.</p><p>Not angry, just—<em>exhausted.</em> Distantly sad. He’s not sure she means to show him that much.</p><p>They are not… close. Not friends. Five years feels like a lifetime ago, and he’d prided himself on doing the utmost to forge amicable relations with the other houses, but he cannot say for certain that they’ve spoken but a handful of words to each other before circumstances drew them on the same loose side.</p><p>“I… I knew he did not speak favorably of Hrym county, but I had <em> assumed</em>,” Ferdinand swallows, takes a cursory pause, chooses his words, scraps them, squeezes his eyes shut, “I had assumed that any… <em>oversights </em> on the part of the council would have been brought to light by now. My father wanted me to have nothing to do with Hrym.”</p><p>He had assumed, for the first time, and certainly not the last, that there was a good, sturdy reason behind it. He thinks, sometimes, had he held a little more of the bitter bile that seems to drip from all of—</p><p>—Ferdinand decides to let the thought die. His body already feels far too heavy to drag back to his bed tonight. He does not need the ghosts of time long past to drape themselves around his pitifully-slumped shoulders.</p><p>That may be too indulgent of a wish. He will not sleep tonight, of that he is certain.</p><p>Lysithea shoos him away when he offers to clean up; Ferdinand feels unsightly remembering to gulp down some of the lukewarm tea he’s abandoned all but to keep his hands occupied. He doesn’t think Lysithea wants him to dwell any longer than he has. They both have their methods for idle hands. He bequeaths untouched cake and sheepishly pushes his saucer aside.</p><p>Once upon a time, when his path had been tidy, future achievements laid brick-by-brick, he knew with a fierce certainty he would step into the light and bring House Aegir with him, and it would not be easy, but it would be rewarding, and he had shoulders broad enough to carry those ambitions with his head held high.</p><p>Head holds for as long as it can, which is until he’s outside in the shadow of the dining hall, pitch-black except for a waning moon.When Ferdinand’s feet finally remember to work, they  take him down the same path treaded by the spirits of generations of students—including the smiling, naïve<em> boy </em>he’d once been—by candlelight, filtered through the aged door frame of what used to be dormitories.</p><p>It’s a miracle they have remained as intact as they are, handy storage for beds and bedding, even as anything of value had been spirited away when Garreg Mach had been evacuated, either by fleeing students or by years of opportunists.</p><p>There are more temporary barracks, lodgings made out of beds from the former nunnery. But, for his troubles, there is a room that last belonged to him, which currently houses his meager collection of things and, most pressing, the pillow for his head that will see no rest.</p><p> </p><p>Most of his old classmates had elected not to dwell. But there are <em> exceptions. </em></p><p>He knows the candlelight well when he sees it streaming from underneath the cracks in the doorway.</p><p>For one terribly impulsive moment, Ferdinand has the thought to knock, but knows the room’s inhabitant, for all the strides she’s made, hates surprises something <em> terrible</em>—late-night callers most of all.</p><p>Knuckles hover at the wood when weary feet take him to the covered walkway, despite himself. There is an image, crisp and clear, of Bernadetta von Varley hunched over at her desk, any number of creative pursuits sprawled before her, lips puckered and brow knotted in focus. It is not reminiscent of any recent memory but of distant ones instead; an amalgamation of having observed in stolen sidelong glances the way her head barely lifted further than her schoolwork in class, and for once such a distant, childish memory does not eat at him with poisonous waves of guilt—</p><p> </p><p>—It is a wholly unfair assessment. His hand falls back to his side. Bernadetta remains undisturbed, as does the rest of the corpse of the Officers Academy, save for his door and his pillow, and the ceiling that must bear his vacant stare and innumerous unspoken thoughts.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>II.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Varley was settled long ago, in the wetness of winter limply crawling into spring.</p><p>Ferdinand thinks the whole thing is entirely sad, really, in all of his spry twelve years: how the late Count Bernard von Varley had died in his slumber in Enbarr, and how the rest of his family then waits on Imperial messengers to hear the news—and while Varley county is not the furthest corners of Adrestia’s shores, it is much closer to the mountainous borders than not, a week out on swift horseback, perhaps four days with a mount exchange—</p><p>—<em> So long </em> not knowing. Only discovered, as when each minister took their place in council, it came to pass that they were six.</p><p>To die and to not be known to the world in death until hours had passed, cold and alone without a single soul at his bedside… Ferdinand’s stomach turns; feels a deep, youthful pity before nursing a bruised ego when he is swiftly spirited away back to the Aegir manse in the city, no longer underfoot.</p><p>That same bruised pride is what brings him to Varley county at his father’s side in a few weeks’ time, eagerly watching the rolling plains and the distant peaks that cut the horizon through the little carriage window, despite the fact the ground itself is little more than barren fields, mud, and stalwart pines blooming from them. He struggles to recall every fact he has read in his own survey of Adrestia’s grand lands, eager to recite them before his father.</p><p>(For his part, his father only half-listened, and had spent the majority of their riding days with a brow that only furrowed more severely the closer they got to Château Arblanc.)</p><p>Death is not entirely a stranger, but more an abstract concept. Ferdinand’s own grandfathers passed before he could form any memories of either, but he has been to a distant cousin’s funeral once, and remembers a lot of bowed heads and solemn contemplation—and a black collar that had itched something fierce, the most pressing part to a boy of seven years. He’d taken to staring at the rafters of the ceiling, which had earned him his mother’s nails in the back of his hair, yanking his head down.</p><p>He had since forgotten, of course, about the viewings—the macabre way the former Minister of Religion, sent home for burial rites so that he may be properly put to rest under the watchful eyes of Saint Indech and his heavenly mother, has a room to himself in an off-center parlor of Château Arblanc. The manor’s white walls are fresher than those of Aegir or the imperial palace in Enbarr: newer, modeled in the shadow of Garreg Mach’s holy monastery. It is strange, then, to see it draped in mourning black.</p><p>This time, Ferdinand’s eyes remain ahead during services. No nails meet his scalp.</p><p>It is only fitting for one minister to host another, although Ferdinand has heard in his mother’s offhand, idle gossip that the Varleys were cold, hardly interested in the hosting of others. For his part, Ferdinand has always thought little of it, and when his father holes himself up in the office of the deceased Count Varley’s son—soon enough, he supposes, a count in his own right—he finds himself doubting the claims they are frugal, idly wandering through their rather impressive garden.</p><p>Tidy footpaths, well-maintained shrubbery that would soon enough bloom once spring settles over Adrestia. Ferdinand regards with curiosity on an overcast day what appears to be a greenhouse, off one of the main wings, else a glass viewing room, and it is there, in his idle curiosity, he stares ahead and nearly trips over a form, half-crouched along the bushes.</p><p>It was there, in an ungraceful heap and panicked yelps, that he first encountered Bernadetta von Varley in full.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ferdinand had, in effect, forgotten of her existence until then—<em>ah</em>, <em>no</em>, that is unfair. She has never stepped foot in Enbarr, to his knowledge, or at least not any time he was there for the opera each season. They are the same in age, and yet far as he can tell, she keeps no close confidantes.</p><p>Occasionally, Caspar von Bergliez follows his father and eldest brother into the city, and sometimes they test their martial mettle against one another, and Caspar will idly mention Bernadetta in passing—<em>Maybe we played together one time?</em>—and a dramatic battle cry follows as he thrusts a wooden sword straight towards Ferdinand’s ribs. But, that is the closest he comes to firsthand accounts.</p><p>Secondhand, however, is a different story. Ferdinand is proud to consider himself a close friend of Imperial Princes Heinrich and Eckhard von Hresvelg, when they have the time from lessons to spare to work on his lancework with him (not that he <em> begs</em>, he would never, and not that he’s upset that they’ve suddenly spent more than a season inland of the shores of what used to be Nuvelle lands and have not returned his letters) and they sometimes gossip about Bernadetta. Once or twice, Heinrich has mentioned her quite unfavorably, drawing a frown from his younger brother while recounting the curses that Bernadetta von Varley enacts</p><p>Little dolls, made from hay and scraps of cloth and crafted into the likeness of her enemies, whoever they may be. They’d heard it from their mother, Heinrich had said, and so they could be sure, because he’d overheard his mother say the same to her ladies-in-waiting, and while Bernadetta’s mother was diligent in the offices of Enbarr’s bishop, she’d always been particularly cold at court, and Ochs brood she came from had always been distinctly <em> unfriendly</em>, capable but standoffish, known for little more than their metallurgy and their particular dedication to the preservation of glyphs and sigils and any number of forgotten spells.</p><p>—Point being: they are rumors, but the girl hidden away in Varley county has never once shown her face to disprove them and no one dares say them to the rising Countess Varley’s pinched expressions to give her a chance to refute any of it. </p><p><em> And </em> it came from reputable sources, far as Ferdinand was concerned.</p><p>Now he has gone and trampled over her, heel to the hem of her dress. Ferdinand catches himself before he stumbles, but Bernadetta von Varley is knocked from her crouch and into the trim bushes in front of her.</p><p>Ferdinand’s blood runs cold, and his mouth hangs agape until he remembers his manners, thin as they are.</p><p>“I! I’m… <em> I am</em>—so sorry, I—” There is what seems like an endless amount of stops and starts to Ferdinand’s apology before he draws himself to his fullest height and then bends down to offer a hand.</p><p>The first thing he notes are her wide eyes, stormy-gray and red-rimmed, staring numbly at his hand before they flit upward to him for the briefest of glimpses.</p><p>The second thing he notices is a little wooden box at her side, overturned and latch undone. A gardening spade is spilling out, and there is a paper that crumples underneath her palm.</p><p>Ferdinand cannot <em> begin </em> to venture a guess as to what she is doing.</p><p>His own eyes widen like hers, and Heinrich’s whispers outweigh Eckhard’s rib-jabs and pleas to stop speaking ill of others, as Ferdinand suddenly realizes he’s better off not knowing.</p><p>It takes every single lesson spent in etiquette and manners recalled for him to dumbly break the tension: “Um. You have a big garden.”</p><p>Bernadetta does not move, but she finally speaks when he takes her silence for granted and reaches for her wrist to begin helping her to her feet. Then, suddenly, wits return, and a hand bats his away, and she’s sputtering.</p><p>“D-Don’t! Please don’t—don’t touch anything, I, I can—I’m <em> leaving</em>, I’m sorry for—for being <em> in the way</em>—”</p><p>“Your papers—?”</p><p>“My…? Oh,” and a slower, saddened, “<em>Oh</em>,” follows, not for him but to herself as her fistful of paper crumbles further when she lifts it, somewhat damp from the grass. There is a sadness to the way she smooths the paper over her knee, not caring about the way it might stain her black dress, and until she remembers Ferdinand is still standing—gawking, really, in the way children do—her expression is distant, as though in her own little world.</p><p>She is so <em> small</em>, made apparent when she picks herself up off the ground. Much like a doe, her head is bowed to the plants, back to him again and bending to pick up her forgotten wares. Although Ferdinand’s mind is racing, he stays rooted in place.</p><p>Bernadetta’s hands are caked with dirt. She’s been here in the gardens for far longer than Ferdinand has, and seems unphased by the fact.</p><p>If he were to leave now, turn on his heels and march back towards the manor, he could pretend, in effect, that he was never here and prevent provoking her wrath any further.</p><p>Curiosity gets the better of him. There is rustling; he ventures a guess that she is burying the box, and one careful step after another confirms it as Ferdinand easily peers over Bernadetta’s head to watch her actions. Spade wrapped in the paper—<em> a letter? </em> He can make out tidy rows of cursive but no words—and both placed in the box, and dirty hands working quickly to cover the entire thing into the muddy earth in a little hole she must have been digging before he’d tripped clear over her.</p><p>It is strange, and if he did not know any better, he would call it funeral rites of her own. The way she pulls herself up and clasps her hands together, and the faintest murmurs of a prayer, rushed through with no reverence, is…</p><p>...<em> Well. </em> Pitiable. Much the same to a child as a distant dead grandfather.</p><p>Ferdinand knows better this time, and waits till Bernadetta’s head lifts and she’s staring solemnly into the distance to clear his throat. She doesn’t quite startle again, but tenses as though she’d hoped, by the time she slows turns to peer up at him, that there would be only air in his place instead.</p><p>“P… Please, don’t,” she starts, after Ferdinand watches several attempts at words form on her lips, “Tell anyone I was here. I… I <em> just</em>—”</p><p>“Ah, no! I didn’t mean to intrude, or trip over you, and your… <em> your…?</em>”</p><p>Bernadetta’s worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, wringing her hands still clasped together. The silence stretches on far beyond polite, and Ferdinand feels as though there’s sweat beading just underneath his black collar.</p><p>He’s not sure he <em> wants </em> an answer. He’s not sure if Bernadetta von Varley lives up to the whispers of imperial princes, either. But he does as he remembers he <em> should </em> do, and somewhere in a coat pocket is a handkerchief, wrinkled as her paper, which he dutifully offers.</p><p><em> That </em> startles her, and when she stares dumbfounded, Ferdinand clears his throat again, shyly looking away while offering, “For your hands.”</p><p>She takes it by pinching the edges between two fingers, and he feels her eyes boring into him and swallows the impulse to bolt, quite suddenly, as sweat beads more under his collar.</p><p>“Um.”</p><p>No ‘thank you,’ just a singular word, stretched thin in its surprise.</p><p>Nothing to grab onto. Nothing to dispel any rumor or curse him to the grave himself. Merely a sound as she wipes her hands and awkwardly shoves the fine cloth back into his palms. It is his prize again before he gets another word; Bernadetta’s <em> sorry </em> is emphatic, watery, and carried away on the wind.</p><p>He learns, for the first of many times, how swift Bernadetta von Varley can be.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>What he does not learn until she is far out of sight is that she still lingers, in a way, tucked inside the center of his hastily-folded handkerchief. Something flutters to his feet when he grimaces and moves to shove it back in his pocket, and Ferdinand is so, <em> so </em> grateful the Varley gardens offer relative seclusion—by the way he jumps back, involuntarily, as <em> something </em> drops from it and lands by the toe of his shoes. Any onlooker would assume a snake had coiled to strike at his feet.</p><p>When he is composed and definitely <em>not</em> <em>startled</em>, Ferdinand realizes that this… <em>something</em> looks dead at first blush, but is soft to the touch. Yarn, maybe, or thick thread. At one point, it was woven together in the approximation of a beautiful flower, but mulch stains the softer lavender and yellow fibers and sullies the darker purple strands.</p><p>It is handmade. For the buried box and whatever ritual he had interrupted, he’s sure. Now it remains in his care, nestled in his palms with his soiled kindness.</p><p>To simply throw it away seems callous—nay, <em> dangerous</em>, and for the entire stiff, brisk walk back towards the manor proper, he is mentally composing a letter in frantic haste, a polite inquiry to a Hubert von Vestra.An admitted enigma, and a peer that rarely gives him the time of day while he visits Enbarr, but Ferdinand has heard once or twice that Hubert is learned in reason magic, with whispers of the Vestra heir having a mastery over a far more advanced, less-regulated kind.</p><p>Ferdinand’s mental composition is polite, if panicked: <em>Would you perhaps be so kind as to share with me your knowledge in the magical arts, as I admit to not having ample tutoring in that field; more specifically, do you have any experience with curses? </em>He is unsure of how long it would take to get a reply back before he meets an inevitable demise.</p><p>He does not run into the Varley daughter for the rest of their stay. His father seems in far better spirits once they depart; Ferdinand remains silent for the majority of their ride back, save to ask if there is a book anywhere in their library at home on the flora of Adrestia.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em> Collected Surveys and Observations through the Oghma Mountain Range, </em> page 171. <em> Wild sweet viola</em>.</p><p>Modesty.</p><p>Devotion, as an alternative interpretation, but the pages describe a sky-blue bloom for bouquets with a message, unlike what stays wrapped in his pocket. <em> Modern Apothecary and its Applications, Volume</em> II, suggests its usefulness in soothing an aching head—or heart, cross-referenced by a more recent anatomical text. Useful for sweet wine, hence the name.</p><p>All inconclusive, except for the thought burning, much like the crocheted trinket still nestled in his pocket. It might be better suited for a bouquet sent as a courting gesture, rather than imbibed with dark desires and rot.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>III.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The smoldering hole the flower burns in his coat pocket slowly fades in a new home. In lieu of options, the handkerchief and cursed object are left to the whims of the little desk in his room, facing the window he stares at when he should be listening to his tutor. Slowly, fear fades as well. Ferdinand forgets about the garden, and the steely-eyed girl, and the curse that possessed his studies for the better part of a week (and encapsulated one frantic letter drafted, never sent) loses the war against a child’s attention.</p><p>Spring finally won its bitter battle against the chill, and then the Aegir countryside erupted into fresh greens and white wildflowers. A birthday passes, and then several more before he remembers to blink.</p><p>(Eckhard and Heinrich do not write him back. Ferdinand cannot remember when exactly he realizes they never will.)</p><p>Freshly fifteen, he is always looking for a distraction, and when reprieve comes in the form of a summons from his father all the way to his office, he’s thankful for an excuse to push out of his chair. It is a better use of his energy than swaying feet and watching the sun pass through the sky in longer and longer glances while he waits for his fencing instructor. By the time he makes it there, his bright smile is unflinching.</p><p>There is a lot to discuss, of course. Ferdinand’s head is held high, eyes eager, and he is ready for any number of things—a survey of Aegir at the summer’s end, perhaps, as he feels he ought to start truly <em> knowing </em> his lands. They had discussed once before the possibilities of the Officers Academy, although his father had quickly shelved his son’s expectations for a few more years yet. Ferdinand is not discouraged, however, and if his father is perhaps willing to hear his argument again—</p><p>—<em> No, none of that. </em></p><p>Ferdinand expects any number of things, but what comes to pass manages to slip his notice: <em> betrothal </em> forms on his father’s lips, and his mind falters several steps behind his father’s espousing.</p><p>When <em> Varley </em> follows in short order, his wits are collected in shorter time.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(<em>Modesty</em>, <em> devotion</em>, his mind runs down a years-old list of deciphered meanings. Had he been scouring for the truth of a curse when it was meant as a missive?</p><p>A chill runs down his spine nonetheless.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The betrothal is shelved alongside his expectations. The unease lingers until that, too, is lost to time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. beargrass</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>to carefree school days, second impressions, and ferdinand's burning passion for horses.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>IV.</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Manuela Casagranda’s new stage is within the walls of Garreg Mach monastery—a holy castle, grandiose and ancient, befitting the princess of his childhood memory.</p>
<p>Ferdinand’s hopes of chance meetings are dashed several times over. He arrives early to begin his year at the Officers Academy, head held high and beaming, smoothing the crisp new lapel of his uniform coat over in the mirror, making sure he cuts a perfect figure in it. He asks around after Manuela Casagranda, of course, but she is busy, a professor and the infirmary master in equal measure. She’s stepped out of her office, or speaking with someone, or otherwise simply <em> not available</em>. Every time a new voice reaches his ears, Ferdinand’s gaze chases, and every time his hopes are dashed.</p>
<p>He greets every new face with proper introductions, however, his practiced bow and an amicable grin, and it is while he hovers in the doorway of Linhardt von Hevring (whom he hasn’t seen in <em> years</em>, taller than Ferdinand remembers but every bit as dismissive as he barely makes any motions to unpack) that he overhears a conversation that carries from the outdoor walkway.</p>
<p>A voice from his distant memory, floating on the warm spring wind; head ducks out from the threshold of Linhardt’s room to see the idol of his childhood days gracefully bowing into another’s dorm.</p>
<p>She is shadowed by a student, a girl with a familiar face, on the edge of his memory, but Ferdinand is in a trance. He forgets manners—not that Linhardt von Hevring ever meets a conversation with his own—and steps towards them, epithet already on his tongue.</p>
<p>All smiles, blooming wide and bright! All crushed the moment the girl shadowing Manuela Casagranda, his dearest idol, steps between him and the threshold. Her smile is taut. Her eyes would be beautiful if he were not taken aback by the sharp <em> something </em> that filled her gaze.</p>
<p>He recognizes her in short order, too.</p>
<p>“Ah, forgive me! You are—”</p>
<p>“—handling it! Thank you for the concern, but I think we’ve got this under control.”</p>
<p>The door is still open, but the rising star of the Mittelfrank Opera Company blocks Ferdinand’s way to meet her gilded predecessor in kind. From inside the open door (that he cannot crane his neck to see past Dorothea Arnault’s shoulder, as he finds, not that he does it so <em> ostentatiously</em>) he can hear voices—Manuela’s calm drawl cutting through the abyss he cannot see. He hears another voice, shrill and unfamiliar and trembling on every single word. It’s nearly incomprehensible. Ferdinand has a stark mental image of tears just beyond his line of sight.</p>
<p>He tries, this time less cautiously, to glance past Dorothea’s shoulder. This time, her look crystallizes into something far more familiar. This time, Ferdinand can place the disdain with ease, and his brows raise and he takes more than a step back in response.</p>
<p>“I—Is everything alright? Forgive me if I am intruding, and forgive me for forgoing the introductions. I am—”</p>
<p>“—Ferdinand von Aegir. You’ve got quite a voice on you, you know. I could hear you talking from three doors down.”</p>
<p>Miss Arnault’s disdain does not soften in the least, although the way her lips work themselves into a honey-sweet smile despite that is impressive. Ferdinand’s cheeks color; she is attractive, no doubt, but the pointed way she wields her words slides clean between his ribs like a knife.</p>
<p>“We’ve just got a classmate that seems to be having… a bit of homesickness.”</p>
<p>The wails from inside the room grow louder.</p>
<p>“<em>Homesickness.</em>”</p>
<p>“Yup.”</p>
<p>The smile stays painted in place, but Ferdinand has enough sense to know, even as he bristles that little bit, the conversation is over.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He learns, the very first day of class, two things of interest:</p>
<p>One: the moment Ferdinand steps into the hallowed halls of the Black Eagles classroom, the first to arrive with a gloved hand passing over the stone threshold with a certain amount of awe—feeling the weight of a thousand students passing through the very same, eager to drink in the ghosts of their shared triumphs—that there has been a sudden change to the academy staff.</p>
<p>In Ferdinand’s second attempt to greet his idol with the full attention she deserves, his held-high head meets azure with such a dark intensity that Ferdinand’s left balking.</p>
<p>(<em>Professor Byleth Eisner </em> does not have the same ring to it as <em> Professor Manuela Casagranda</em>, as he works it around in his head once seated, but it is only fair to extend the benefit of the doubt. Any child of the Blade Breaker himself must be worldly, if lacking in formal training. Ferdinand knows it is only fair to temper his expectations, for now, until he knows more.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Two…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...Bernadetta von Varley is here. She trickles in and sits next to him when their new professor insists they all flock towards the front and her own plans to sit far away from everyone else are thwarted. She does not recognize him, does not say a word, and it’s all she can do not to lay her head down on her desk.</p>
<p>(He would not recognize her, either, but there is something peculiar about the way she carries herself; in the fall of her shoulders, Ferdinand smells the damp earth of Château Arblanc, and remembers their funeral for two. He stiffens.)</p>
<p>Her arms rest on the table, fingers peeking out from her sleeves with a white-knuckle grasp on the desk, as if that and her instructor’s gaze are the only things keeping her from taking flight.</p>
<p>It’s a little rude of him to whisper a hello amid introductions, he knows as much, but he bends his head down, hoping to meet her eye with a smile, as is polite to do. Memories come back in flashes. There is a dirty handkerchief and a dirtier knit flower, rotting at the back of his desk at home.</p>
<p>Bernadetta shrinks further into herself, one sidelong glance enough to send a visible shudder through her as she bores holes into the desk.</p>
<p>The pity for her that works its way back into the center of his chest is starved off by the wound to his pride. Immediately, Ferdinand feels like he’s all of twelve again.</p>
<p>The rumors of cursed dolls have all but been lost to his childhood. He does not bring them up; Bernadetta does not give him a chance to speak before she’s fled from their shared bench the moment bells dismiss them.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>V.</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Introductions, like lessons, happen in twos: Ferdinand does, at last, meet Manuela Casagranda twice in quick succession.</p>
<p>He doesn’t remember dozing off on the infirmary cot, uniform jacket slung carelessly at the end of his bed, but he awakes to Manuela, pausing in her own work unpacking infirmary supplies from a small delivery crate, gliding to his bedside with ease and one corner of her mouth twitching into a smile.</p>
<p>“Good, you’re awake. The Blaidydd boy feels pretty poorly about the skirmish you had today, by the way—kept hovering until I finally shooed him off. No broken bones, thankfully, although you’re gonna feel a little sore for a couple of days.”</p>
<p>Memories trickle back to the forefront of his mind: the classes held a mock battle today, a benchmark test so their respective professors could measure their strengths and adjust lessons in turn.</p>
<p>Edelgard von Hresvelg has not been a constant in his life until a few years ago. His peer, of course, and one Ferdinand respects on principle: capable, severe, a stubborn streak that seemed to be the unifying personality of every Hresvelg he has met in his seventeen years. Distinctly different from her brothers, however, by virtue of the crested blood in her veins and a certain fire that smolders behind her gaze, seemingly prematurely fixed.</p>
<p>Ferdinand likes to think they’ve become closer with time, makes a point to visit her, even, and on occasion has had the pleasure of offering her a hand while he goes through his own martial drills.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(The first time they’d sparred together properly, Ferdinand learned that perhaps he need not worry about her catching up. No, there is no need for him to make sure Edelgard does not lag behind her peers. She must have learned a thing or two while abroad.</p>
<p>All the better: politeness out of the way, Ferdinand he can strive to outpace her and be not the shadow masking the sunlight, but the sunlight itself.</p>
<p>Her slight frame hid a reserve of strength and eyes scorched with a fury that could not be wholly accounted for by the Crest of Seiros, and at fifteen, Ferdinand was knocked to the ground of one of the many gardens of Enbarr’s palace, was left staring up as the same severe fire bore down on him, Edelgard’s head craned and blotting out the sun.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Not unlike Manuela Casagranda now, albeit she meets him instead with a bemused expression,the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the infirmary windows.</p>
<p>The cot he finds himself on is rather uncomfortable. Ferdinand had not followed Edelgard’s orders to stay in line. The “Blaiddyd boy”—<em>the Holy Prince</em>—had stepped forward to challenge, and Ferdinand had felt his own fire and the sun on his back and the grip on his lance had been truer. He remembers proclaiming to the sky the grace with which he would halt the <em> Crown Prince of Faerghus’s </em> advance; he remembered the dark timber of Hubert’s voice, no time to mask the disdain dripping from his voice.</p>
<p>Broken lines and battle cries, all to meet a prince with experience that far outmatched his own, as he learned with the wind knocked clear from his lungs. Their brief skirmish came to a rather anticlimactic end, unfortunately.</p>
<p>Ferdinand’s throat feels very, <em> very </em> dry.</p>
<p>He does not croak out words of admiration or gratitude so much as a grunt, thoroughly seeped in his own embarrassment.</p>
<p>Ferdinand is not <em> stewing </em> in his own embarrassment after the fact. That would be unbecoming. But, an afternoon does pass with his body (properly aching, as Manuela had warned, but well-deserved— <em> a lesson</em>) unmoving from the cot, replaying the moments blow-by-blow.</p>
<p>Before he’d landed unceremoniously in the dirt—<em> no</em>, <em> no</em>, on the way down, he swallows while admitting to the sole audience of himself—he had seen stormy eyes and trembling form of Bernadetta von Varley staring back at him in the brush that had been at his back, used by some for cover.</p>
<p>For some reason, the image sticks with him. Eventually, Ferdinand forces himself to rise, to not stay underfoot of Manuela Casagranda, and thanks her in a voice far more sheepish than what he recognizes as being his own. His throat is still dry.</p>
<p>With haste, he tugs his uniform jacket back on for the journey back to the dormitories, only for it to come to hang limply at the foot of his bed again. Fingers gingerly unbutton his shirt to contemplate the bruises underneath.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Manuela’s handiwork must not be understated: instead of ugly purple blotches like he expects, only sickly yellow echoes of the traded blows remain underneath his fingertips. Belated gratitude wells in his throat; Manuela Casagranda’s talents extend far beyond her grandiose presence immortalized in the songs of his childhood.</p>
<p>He <em> feels </em> much like a child again, bruised knees smarting after a day outside, ego smarting by a loss against a martial tutor.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bernadetta’s wide-eyed horror replays well after he drags himself back to his room, and Ferdinand can’t quite discern why. Fingertips still graze uselessly at his chest, counting himself lucky the skin hasn’t been mottled the color of her hair. That must be why. Bruise purple hair stuck out amongst the sparse brush of the battlefield, a poor excuse at an ambush. No, not an ambush—a hiding spot, Ferdinand decides.</p>
<p>Bernadetta chose a bow during the preliminary combat exercises their class did each afternoon. Varley archers are well-regarded, even in the south. Deadly shots, supposedly. Arrows always flying true. Before House Varley was regarded as nobility, it was instead regarded for its hunters at the foothills of the holy mountains, flitting silently among the pines—a fact that every Count Varley in current memory has done their best to obscure.</p>
<p>Bernadetta’s trembling hands have yet to successfully release an arrow, as far as Ferdinand has observed.</p>
<p>His bruises still settle with their dull ache, and his embarrassing display still writ underneath the eyes of his peers. But he resolves to not wallow or dwell, and he buttons his shirt back and sees the steps of a plan slowly laying themselves at his feet. He is not just the brashness he had displayed so thoughtlessly. Ferdinand von Aegir has much more to offer his classmates, especially those that may be starting from further behind him.</p>
<p>Garreg Mach looms imposing over its flock, but whispers travel fast among the lambs: Bernadetta’s admittance was a surprise. No one has seen her slip from beyond the pines in <em> years</em>. With reason, perhaps (she, like the rest of her family, seems to hold a heavy value on privacy), with a yearning to return to her usual haunt, facts filled in the gaps Dorothea Arnault denied.</p>
<p>Ferdinand cannot cure homesickness, of course.He doesn’t care to admit that his studies in the magical arts have been neglected, so even a simple flick of the wrist to heal mottled purple bruises remain a mystery to him—nevermind something as abstract and ephemeral as a longing for the familiar—but he can offer something tangible instead.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A routine is carved out of spring days as one month slowly heralds the arrival of another. Summer tests this new routine’s boundaries, as the days grow warmer and the sunset seems hesitant to kiss the sky in all its brilliant hues. It is hard to tell, kept within the cool stone walls of their classroom, and Ferdinand underestimates the pull of endless summer days, even in the darker interior.</p>
<p>He is focused, though. <em> He is!</em> Ferdinand cannot readily look behind him to the windows to gaze and set his mind adrift without being obvious in his distraction, and so finds himself with a renewed zeal for his lessons.</p>
<p>When their professor calls for answers, his voice rings true, sometimes swifter than Edelgard’s responses, and his chest swells with pride at every correct response and nod from Professor Eisner. And occasionally, while he dictates notes on strategy, he steals a sidelong glance to his neighbor.</p>
<p>There is no strict seating chart, but the rhythm of their days bring their feet to the same spots regardless.</p>
<p>Settling happens slowly. Bernadetta goes from resting her chin against her crossed arms with a lip between her teeth to slowly, carefully hunched over the desk as she begins to take notes. Her shoulders never quite unfurl themselves from the nervous energy that makes the core of every twitch of her body, but her expression, <em> finally</em>, is not so severe once she starts to take notes.</p>
<p>She is studious. She does not raise her voice to answer questions. She does not offer answers to questions at all. Her handwriting is neat, if small, not that Ferdinand tries to let his eyes glance over her words, but, <em> oh no</em>—battalion strategies and formations seem to vex her, judging by the way her brow furrows and she mutters incomprehensibly under her breath. Her brow is considerably smoother when tracing over the mathematics required for proper glyph conscription, although one lesson from Professor Hanneman (who was responsible for overseeing their introduction to the reason arts) does not draw out a burst of magic flame as he was expecting.</p>
<p>Most important of all, Ferdinand decides, is a <em> particular </em> peculiarity to Bernadetta von Varley: if she is not in class nor in the dining hall, she is in her room with the door locked tight, lone inhabitant barred from the outside world.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He chooses his battles carefully. Two days after the mock battle, before class begins, Ferdinand asks simply: “Have you been adjusting well to your lessons?”</p>
<p>She looks as though she’s been struck, body going rigid in a way he hadn’t expected to a simple question. </p>
<p>“—Why? Who wants to know, <em> huh?!</em>”</p>
<p>“I do?” Ferdinand is dumbfounded, brows furrow. One of Bernadetta’s hands rests on the desk, the other wringing the folds of her uniform skirt. She looks more like a hart eyeing a hunter than she does his classmate. “I did not mean to… <em> startle </em> you? Only…”</p>
<p>He clears his throat to try again, forcing to compose himself enough to smile. “We have not had a chance to converse, is all, though we sit next to each other every day. I do not typically see you outside of class, either.”</p>
<p>She does not flee. A good sign. “How are you finding classes?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...<em> Noisy.</em>” The answer is earnest, barely above a whisper, and before Ferdinand can respond Professor Eisner calls class to attention.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ferdinand can do little but wait.</p>
<p>(His patience does not wear to shreds, but it <em> thins</em>.)</p>
<p>He prides himself on his observations, and Bernadetta becomes a strange, almost captivating subject. Slowly, Bernadetta begins to unravel even further as the Garland Moon passes them by. She starts to whisper answers to herself, head timidly lifting from gazing holes into her parchment every time Professor Eisner prompts them for an answer to a question. The hunch does not leave as she sits, but for fleeting moments Ferdinand catches a smile edging on the corner of her lips when she gets it correct.</p>
<p>Her focus solidifies. When she writes there is concentration, and the tiniest hint of her tongue protruding from one corner of her mouth when in <em> deepest </em> contemplation.</p>
<p>A test: he beams a bright smile and gives a hearty greeting every morning as she sits down. At first, it was right before the church bells tolled when she would slip inside, unseen to all but her stalwart neighbor.</p>
<p>At first, the response received is rising shoulders and a tremor through her body, no words offered from parted lips, frozen in unspoken horror. Slowly, the tremor fades. Eventually, a tentative nod acknowledges his efforts.</p>
<p>He almost misses the first “<em>Good morning,</em>” he gets in response, spoken so quietly that he Ferdinand he might have dreamed it.</p>
<p>His gaze widens, and it is his turn for his mouth to hang open with no words to say.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>One thing does not change: Bernadetta trails behind the rest of their class in the martial arts, as Ferdinand feared. Her constitution is too slight for any of the battle axes, and the first sign of fencing lessons have her pale in the face. One day, Ferdinand offers his hand at running through a few drills with a lance, firm grip on the hilt of his own. Bernadetta blanches in full and all but becomes Dorothea’s shadow for the rest of the afternoon.</p>
<p>(Ferdinand is guilty of not spending as much time as he could at the archery range—not to neglect this area of study, but archery lessons have never quite interested him—but he makes a mental note to learn, later, so that she at least has someone to spot her stance.)</p>
<p>One day, after training drills with some of the Knights of Seiros, the Black Eagles flock much like birds to the dining hall, nested together on one long table, thoroughly worked ragged but in high spirits. It is the first time he can remember Bernadetta joining them, although he supposes to flee now would be a bit too conspicuous for polite company. She does not talk much—she does not talk <em> at all</em>, to be honest—but he sees the way she leans closer to Petra Macneary across the table, nodding in turn or whispering something he cannot hear under her breath.</p>
<p><em> Unnerved </em> is perhaps a little unkind to describe the darkness that clouds her expression, especially when there are fleeting smiles offered in kind each time Petra or Dorothea acknowledge her. But she does not look particularly fond of the entire affair.</p>
<p>The class goes their separate ways after the fact. But the moment sticks in his mind, and as he goes about his afternoon it is by chance he catches Bernadetta walking back to her room, alone, no slouch to her shoulders and the scattered notes of a melody he’s unfamiliar with delicately hummed, carried on the breeze.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Goddess presents moments for a reason. Ferdinand takes it, calling out to Bernadetta before she slips back into her room and shuts out the world again.</p>
<p>His smile is bright like it is every morning, and though she startles (she <em> always </em> startles) he can only imagine it is because very few people have worked to cultivate her potential—an <em> injustice,</em> truly, and one that Ferdinand knows he can correct.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Perhaps she cowered in the brush, sick for home—and cowers <em> now,</em> hiding away from her peers—because she does not yet have the tools necessary to step into the sunlight in full.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>No, Edelgard von Hresvelg does not need lessons.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is, however, someone else who does.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>VI.</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(<em>Introductions come in twos. </em></p>
<p>The second introduction, to Ferdinand’s great displeasure, is far more shameful than the first. Manuela massages the muscle of his sprained wrist, the warmth of healing faith at her fingertips, clicking her tongue at him.</p>
<p>“I used to attend every one of your shows religiously, as a child,” is the answer he gives when his head hangs at her pointed question, the <em> and how’d you do this? </em> like she already knew the answer and wanted to hear the admittance of guilt for the sake of it.</p>
<p>“Of course you did,” she tuts, a foregone conclusion, then a far most wistful, “Where does the time go.”)</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>VII.</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ferdinand hesitates.</p>
<p>There is no reflection to stare him down, although he did spend the better part of the morning before doing the cuffs of his shirt—wringing an ungloved hand around his wrist and rolling it—imagining the smallest of fingerprints indented into his skin as a startling, poignant lesson in humility.</p>
<p>There is no trace of injury. No swelling at all, and once the wound to his pride closed over, as he tucked tail and fled to the safety of his quarters from the infirmary, all that remained was the sinking feeling that perhaps he had gone a step too far.</p>
<p>No, he <em> definitely </em> had. To put his hands on a lady, even with good intentions, is unbecoming. They were not at attention, not engaged in combat, merely in rest, and the gasp that erupted from Bernadetta, the way she <em> recoiled</em>—well. It cleaved through his ambitions in the moment, true as an axe to the executioner’s block.</p>
<p>He has not thought of that dreary day in her family’s gardens in years. That was fear then, too, wasn’t it?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He feels it, too, rapping knuckles against the wood. Measured as he can: <em>Bernadetta, if you have a moment, I would like to talk to you. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The previous night, he turned conversations over in his head, imagined what emotions could dance around her face; there is only so little he can observe from sidelong stares in class, but her face conveys her thoughts readily. It is easier to predict, easier to soothe the worries so quick to plague her speech—</p>
<p>—but, really, no better at proving the point he wishes to make. “You do not even need to open the door. Just listen to me.” <em> Please. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>...Is this a truce?</em>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A tremor to her voice, as there always is, but she seems receptive. Ferdinand will count his blessings, even as he feels somewhat silly talking to the wood of her door. “<em>...Okay. I like truces.</em>”</p>
<p>It gets easier. He cannot read every rise and fall of her expressions but can imagine them all the same, a perfect mind’s-eye portrait of his neighbor, her furrowed brow and puckered lips. Much as she does in class, he talks, and she bows her head and does not respond, and he hopes, even if he cannot see her, that she listens.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He keeps talking, until he feels short of breath, and concludes, lips pursed and fighting the urge to hang his own head:</p>
<p>“And so… I was mistaken. I should not have stuck my nose where it did not belong, and I apologize for the discomfort it brought you. Frightening you like that, grabbing you as I did… that was unbecoming conduct of a noble.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>...Maybe just a little bit.</em>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The response comes from just beyond the door, not curled up into a corner like he’d assumed. Once mouth, more hangs agape, and there is something about the directness of her statement that forces a smothered bark of laughter from the back of his throat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes, well.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Humbled</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next morning, his focus is on an equation that, upon fresh eyes, he notices an error in. He’s in the middle of copying down what works to correct what doesn’t when he’s greeted with a whisper of a <em> Good Morning, Ferdinand. </em></p>
<p>Head shoots up, and he catches the smallest trace of a smile from Bernadetta’s profile, already preoccupied with the book open in front of her.</p>
<p>“Good morning, Bernadetta!” He is beaming, as it’s all he can think to do, humbled as he is to be beaten to their morning routine.</p>
<p>She does not turn to face him fully, but she nods, and even shrinking into herself, with trembling lips, the smile grows a little wider.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>By pure happenstance, they are assigned stable duty together the next Saturday.</p>
<p>Ferdinand has half a mind to greet Bernadetta at her door, but decides against it—through careful observation that, <em> yes</em>, Bernadetta von Varley is simply not an early riser—to take in the morning for repose.</p>
<p>(He has heard acquaintances in the past speak ill of this particular caveat of enrollment, but he must disagree. They are here to learn, and live on holy lands, and everyone does their part humbly and with grace under Her watchful eyes. It is a type of penance, an offering of hard work for Her land.</p>
<p>Furthermore, it is hardly a chore to spend the mornings with the knights’ horses. In Aegir, Ferdinand rides early and often.Here, the steeds that graze are well-behaved and eat greedily out of the palm of his hand when he can sneak sugarcubes from the afternoon tea table to them. Well-deserved, surely, for the work they do with their riders in kind.)</p>
<p>He is humming, pitchfork in hand, mucking out dearest Camus’s stall. Ferdinand is not inclined to play favorites, <em> oh no</em>, but under the stablemaster’s watchful eyes, there have been lessons for those that have never ridden, and he has offered himself as an example rider by the happenstance that he thinks best here in the stables, and he <em> is </em> there to lead. Ferdinand always elects to ride Camus, and then turns him out and watches him graze in the majesty of the mountain peaks enclosing the both of them, and<b>—</b></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, uh—are you <em> singing?</em>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ferdinand whirls around, the teeth of the pitchfork making an ugly scraping sound as it catches stone instead of hay. He is unused to seeing Bernadetta so alert after weeks of her groggy expression in the morning light, but she is attentive from the moment they make eye contact, backing up two paces, hands out in front of her.</p>
<p>“Oh, um, I wasn’t spying! D-Don’t worry, I didn’t see or hear or—you, you know what, I can just <em> go,</em> actually—”</p>
<p>“Bernadetta!” It’s an interjection as much as a greeting, and as an afterthought he leans the pitchfork against the wall, and strokes a careful hand from Camus’s loin to his back as he steps around him. “I hope you do not mind, but I have already gotten started with the morning.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no that’s… fine? I didn’t mean to sleep in so much, but… um. I’m here now?”</p>
<p>Shoulders lose their defensive edge, replaced with the gentle slouch that comes with a particularly defeated expression. Ferdinand has seen it often: in the failure to cast correctly once more, following the tutting of Professor Hanneman’s tongue in disappointment, or the defeat when assigned a partner for one-on-one sparring sessions, wringing the hilt of her practice sword. </p>
<p>“I don’t know a whole lot, <em> so</em>. So I don’t know how much help I’ll be—<em>uh oh</em>. Why are… Why are you looking at me like that?!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Goddess presents opportunities, and sometimes those opportunities are lessons to humble Her children.</p>
<p>Lesson learned.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, no! I did not mean to stare, Bernadetta,” Ferdinand says carefully, although there is a glimmer to his gaze. “It is only…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, do you want to?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The delight of the morning is that Bernadetta, despite her nervous ways, does not shy away from his lessons. There is proper admiration for the horses, of course—they are powerful, beautiful creatures and can level even the most fearsome of men with one swiftly-delivered kick—but after a demonstration, she does not shy away from picking their hooves. She brushes them like she knows where the mats in their longer coats tend to congregate, and over the course of the morning Ferdinand is struck by the fact he’s never seen her so relaxed.</p>
<p>Work passes by quickly together as the monastery wakes up around them. Bernadetta rolls up her sleeves and replaces old bedding with fresh hay as he mucks the stalls. They take turns checking hooves and brushing them down after the fact. They talk sparingly, but, remarkably, Ferdinand does not find himself reaching for words to fill the space. It is a comfortable silence, a focused one, and occasionally, as she flits between one stall and the next, he can hear quiet cooing and murmurs made to herself as Bernadetta greets each stable’s resident.</p>
<p>They’ve moved on to taking the steeds out to pasture, and it only takes a few moments of observation before she’s leading one of the mares outside without his help.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(They take out Camus last, of course: he always does, for a chance to linger in the pastures.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Bernadetta,” he says, and he means to only play at severity, but dials back the stern expression quickly as she adjusts the harness on Camus and stands at sudden attention.</p>
<p>“<em>W-What?!</em>”</p>
<p>“Oh, nothing! I… I know you said you knew very little, but, if I may be so bold, you are a natural! I am afraid most of our classmates remain… well, rather sheepish, if not <em> uninspired</em>, by these beautiful creatures. You have been a tremendous help!”</p>
<p>“Oh,” and her face disappears around the other side of Camus, but before he can think to crane his neck above his shoulders, a tentative, “Thank you?” follows.</p>
<p>“No, thank you! Do you ride often, back at home?”</p>
<p>“Not… really.”</p>
<p>Ferdinand’s head cants to the side. “You… <em>have </em> been taught, though, is that correct? I recall you mentioning that, the first day the stablemaster took us around.”</p>
<p>“A long time ago. My… uncle taught me.”</p>
<p>“Your uncle! How wonderful. Does he still ride?”</p>
<p>“He was a knight.” He can hear Bernadetta hang up the curry comb that was in her hand on the other side of dearest Camus.</p>
<p>The <em> was </em> does not escape his attention. Ferdinand’s lips are drawn thin. He does not push further, instead lets her words settle in the silence as they lead Camus downslope towards the paddocks for the knights’ mounts. It is <em> not </em> an awkward pause to collect his thoughts, because Ferdinand follows it up in short order with a smile Bernadetta does not look around to meet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ah, well... He was a wonderful teacher, too. You learned well in his hands.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When at last their work is done, the sun is well overhead. The knights’ horses have been put to pasture, and Ferdinand finds himself leaning against the fence, eyes trailing over the herd of them grazing underneath the mountain peaks cutting jagged lines in the horizon. For a summer’s day, it’s not unpleasantly warm, and there is part of Ferdinand that yearns to stretch himself onto the grass.</p>
<p>He has reading to do. There is a letter from his mother that deserves a timely response. He even has plans to have tea with a student from the Leicester Alliance, as he has not properly introduced himself to the son of Duke Gloucester yet, other than in passing—</p>
<p>—But the thought, the sweet grass and sunshine, is <em> nice. </em> The whole of the morning has been <em> nice.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bernadetta is... <em>nice.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>...Bernadetta’s hands grip the railing in the corner of his eyes, having elected to hang back and stay on the other side of the pasture. She is not looking at him, nor the grazing steeds, but to the grass underneath their feet and he wonders if she has the same thought, even as she shies away so often into the sanctuary of her room.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...<em> In bloom.</em>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What?” Thoughts disperse to catch the hind end of a stray comment, but just as quickly he’s fumbling to interject as she stiffens. “Ah, my apologies, Bernadetta, I did not catch—”</p>
<p>“—No, uh, it wasn’t anything important!”</p>
<p>Ferdinand blinks slowly, keeping his gaze level, but this time does not back down; only waits in the lull that settles between her words until she looks away, one hand falling from the fence to point down at their feet.</p>
<p>“Um. I… I said that the beargrass was in bloom. Oh, it’s not actually grass, though.”</p>
<p>She’s right, though. There is a distant memory, of sitting hunched on the edge of his bed, surrounded by every book he could find on the subject of flowers. A footnote: bear’s lily, squaw grass. (<em>Rebirth, new beginnings. They are hearty, and even if the earth is scorched they are typically the first to break through the charred remains.</em>)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ferdinand has not thought about that little knitted flower in years, and now, <em> twice,</em> it’s come back to memory while he’s been away at school. He’s half a mind to ask, lips poised and her name drawn, but betrays his own intent last minute, to instead idly say: “Is that so?”</p>
<p>She leaves soon after, gaze lingering at the horses, then the grass, and then finally him, with a rushed goodbye and a nod, before she’s scurrying the well-worn path back towards the safety of her domain.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Swiftly,</em> like he remembers her to be.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>why, yes, this chapter was just an excuse for an extended horse soliloquy, thanks for asking.</p>
<p>this chapter in particular was the one that almost convinced me to make this story into a crimson flower-route tale. I love and miss edelgard and hubert so much.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. verbena</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>to the end of the world, and the blossoming of new beginnings.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>VIII.</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The choice to run is the hardest Ferdinand has ever made, and he does not gather the strength all at once.</p>
<p>Before he runs, he must walk. Before he walks, he must crawl. Before he is able to summon the remaining shards of his grace and dignity to <em> crawl</em>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Despite the changing of the seasons, despite growing uncertainty, and distance, and tragedy—how quickly a legend had fallen before his classmates’ eyes, how the terrible, guttural roars of nightmarish monsters had rung in his ears for days after the Blade Breaker’s funeral and his teacher’s tears had stained the ground, despite the unease that had settled, restless underneath his skin—</p>
<p>—for a while. <em> For a while, </em> Ferdinand had thought the year was going <em> well. </em></p>
<p>Unusual, and not sheltered from tragedy, perhaps. The smoke of an entire village razed to the ground for a cause he’d yet to understand still burned in his lungs, and the uncomfortable feeling that Edelgard’s mirth no longer reached her eyes when he greeted his classmates every morning pervaded long after Monica von Ochs had been dishonorably dispelled by his teacher’s blade. (He had approached the false girl on occasion, tried to make her feel welcomed into the fold, but she had little patience for him. Every smile met with a thinly-veiled sneer, every time she disappeared around a corner, he still felt watched. To know that someone… <em> someone else </em> had worn her skin followed Ferdinand through a slew of dreams where the people around him were but nightmarish imitations of their former selves. He woke up many nights in a cold sweat, shivering in his bed. He did not sleep those nights, and he did not disclose such horrors lest they be used against him.)</p>
<p>He had told himself countless times the world was close to righting itself. When he left the hallowed halls of the Officers Academy, the world would make sense once more.</p>
<p>Ferdinand stopped fooling himself one winter morning, on the heels of a sleepless night. He can sheepishly admit to having spent too long in the mirror when he’d forced himself from his bed, prodding at the faint dark streaks underneath his eyes and wondering when his hair had started falling over his vision, and so was—for the first time—the last of his class to arrive. There was an apology at the tip of his tongue when he rushed through the classroom doorway, but no one paid him any mind.</p>
<p>Five of his remaining classmates huddled in a circle. Their professor was nowhere to be found.</p>
<p>Bernadetta, the sixth, hovered next to their shared desk space, listened as intently as the rest, worried with the hem of her uniform jacket.</p>
<p>“I—I apologize, but did I miss something?” Ferdinand had started, paused at Bernadetta’s side, curiosity overtaking the sheepishness of his own tardiness.</p>
<p>Ten pairs of eyes met his own. A different expression danced across each.</p>
<p>Professor Byleth’s voice cut through the pause, expression unreadable—gaze <em> unreachable. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Edelgard and Hubert will not be joining us for a while.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>First, he is brought to his knees.</p>
<p>Edelgard had often bested Ferdinand in practice matches, a petite frame holding an unyielding, tireless sort of energy that Ferdinand knew was not the work of her crest alone. He preferred those matches best, even when at times it only took a decisive, single blow for Edelgard to bring him to his knees. She was a benchmark; somehow, Ferdinand did not mind always being firmly cast in her shadow after those matches, Edelgard blotting out the sun and he helped him back to his feet, even if her words were always severe.</p>
<p>The shadow Edelgard had cast, in enemy armor, unmasked as the phantom who had spent the year tormenting them from a distance, was no longer friendly.</p>
<p>Ferdinand had reached out his hand, drowned out by the agony of Prince Dimitri’s fury, and begged for an explanation. In the next instant, she and Hubert were gone.</p>
<p>So swiftly the two had slipped into the darkness that for nights afterward, Ferdinand is left wondering if they ever considered the light at all.</p>
<p>Church scouts confirm an army at march, with only a week or two at best to prepare, flying the blood-red banner of the twin-headed eagle of Ferdinand’s homeland, with Emperor Edelgard at the helm.</p>
<p>Another scout comes for him, speaks quickly, finds him in the midst of chores no one expects of any student anymore. Ferdinand stands, curry comb in his hand, working through Camus’s proud coat, listening to the quivering voice of the messenger deliver news no one should have had to break.</p>
<p>Marquis Vestra, dead. Count Varley, locked within his own manse. The lords Bergliez and Hevring throwing their full support behind <em> the Emperor. </em></p>
<p>
  <em> And what of Duke Aegir, of his father, of their lands? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ferdinand thanks the scout for his time.</p>
<p>It takes him a long, long time to realize he is working through the same spot in Camus’s coat in a mechanical repetition, and that his weight in full rests against the steed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>(The wonderful thing about such noble creatures is that they do not follow the standards of humans. Camus does not turn to watch when Ferdinand sinks to his knees, and does not tell a soul of how he stays there, defeated, and utterly lost.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The crawl back to Aegir is miserable.</p>
<p>It is one he makes alone, called back on orders of… the Emperor.</p>
<p>Ferdinand spends the entire time ruminating in endless circles with no answer: does Edelgard beckon for him because she wants her friends by her side in this new world she seeks to carve out? Or merely because she has finally bared her fangs, just as the Immaculate One has, and wants each peer to heed, for fear of their own neck?</p>
<p>Ferdinand has no answer, no conclusion by the time he is in the shadow of his former home.</p>
<p>His father’s office doors are still left ajar when Ferdinand comes to them; a deft hand has combed every last inch for any documents that may yet lengthen a sentence that will long outlive Ludwig von Aegir.</p>
<p>Ferdinand should think it a kindness. The former Marquis Vestra is not spared mercy enough for <em> jail</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Emperor’s last mercy had been that in the picking of House Aegir’s now-pitious bones, his childhood room had remained intact.</p>
<p>Before his world had been swept asunder, Ferdinand might have been incensed in the same childish way that every step Edelgard had taken, he had felt compelled to match with two of his own. Was there nothing of interest, nothing worth gleaning, from the summation of his very existence?</p>
<p>Ferdinand had missed the extra steps Edelgard took, so blinded by the sun that he had not noticed how Edelgard kept one eye over her shoulder, to the shadows—</p>
<p>—<em>no. </em>To the shadows that cloud his world now. She has never once looked back, only forged ahead with her chin held high.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He knows that he must walk, eventually.</p>
<p>In a week’s time, he is expected at the Emperor’s side. Every single morning, Ferdinand rises on borrowed time, all strength mustered to simply stand and walk out of his door.</p>
<p>His father awaits trial somewhere in Enbarr. His mother was gone long before Ferdinand had arrived back home, and by now is surely back near the banks of the Airmid River, fleeing to what remains of her former House.</p>
<p>The first day, Ferdinand makes it to his desk, where he means to compose a letter to Her Majesty, but only stares down, unthinking, eyes boring holes into a blank page until he realizes how much of the day he’s lost. He stares at the sunset harder than the parchment in front of him, much like he is fifteen again, wishing he were riding his cares away.</p>
<p>The second day, ink finally reaches paper, but only to stain it black. His hand wavers. He stares at the splotches, out the window, to the splotches again, until he can connect the splattered ink—from<em> hesitating</em>—into three letters. The paper is immediately crumpled, his pen shoved back into its inkwell. When Ferdinand’s back hits his bed, he is repeating the very same question he has tried to dictate: <em> Why? </em></p>
<p>The third day, Ferdinand searches for more paper, out of a vain hope that if there is no suitable parchment left for a missive to the Emperor, then he is surely absolved of the task of trying to bring her to heed.In his half-hearted hunt, something soft hits his fingertips.</p>
<p>Old, knit. He knows it by touch immediately. The same little flower that a trembling hand had pushed into his palm, that had warned him of something once before.</p>
<p>Ferdinand spent a year believing that he knew his classmates, that their adversities had brought them to an understanding that ran deeper than just circumstance and geography.</p>
<p>He has been proven wrong twice now. He does not know the newly-crowned Emperor, or the new Marquis Vestra with still wet blood on his gloves. Ferdinand spent years believing he, and Edelgard, and Hubert—that they were <em> friends</em>, just as he had spent years believing that the homemade, knit sweet viola was a curse rather than a gift.</p>
<p>Bernadetta von Varley had given him his freedom, disguised as a warning, wrapped in cruel rumors she had done nothing to earn. For all Ferdinand knows, she was right to hide away from the world. So far, it has offered very little kindness to either of them.</p>
<p>(Ferdinand had passed by Bernadetta’s room before he left, the majority of Garreg Mach evacuated by then for the impending strike, the first declarations of war slated to arrive at Her door. Something ached in Ferdinand and urged his hand to knock—but decided against. Bernadetta deserved one last shred of carefully cultivated sanctuary before the world tore her from it again, like he had tried to do months before.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>On the fourth day, with less than a day to pull his scattered pieces to something presentable for the emperor’s scrutiny, Ferdinand does not write the declaration he wishes to—the one that is boiling so strongly in his blood—but instead, a simple letter to another recipient altogether, intended to fold over the aged yarn carefully tucked within:</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> A long time ago, you gave this to me as collateral, so that we might share a secret to—well, I can presume it was to the grave. I promise I have not given that secret away, and it may well die with me. I feel it only necessary to return the favor: I fear I am morally unable to fulfill Her Majesty’s first request of me. I only hope you, and the rest of our classmates, do not think poorly of me for what is surely to come, although I would certainly understand. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>By the fifth day, Ferdinand learns to walk again.</p>
<p>Letter is abreast with four others, similar. His hair washed and there is a bedroll, with clothes for the next few days wrapped inside, slung over his shoulder. The ceremonial sword of his academy uniform can be sharpened in a pinch, which he does under candlelight in an empty stall in the family stables. </p>
<p>(He would prefer a lance, if there were a choice, but his swordsmanship is leagues above mere competence, so it will do.)</p>
<p>By the sixth, he has composed his words, and far too many of them, and he goes out of his way to scour other desks for paper so that he may find them in full.</p>
<p>Some letters are scathing: <em> You have seized your crown through dubious means, and through the very same iron fist and blood that you accuse the Church of Seiros of misusing. </em></p>
<p>Some carry the same lament as every single thought that has plagued Ferdinand since the moment he arrived home: <em> Why? Why did you not trust us, who would have happily followed you to the edges of Fódlan and back again, because we believed in your might, your wisdom, and believed, first and foremost, that you were our friend? </em></p>
<p>(<em>Why did you not trust </em> <b> <em>me?</em> </b> <em> I would have—I </em> <b> <em>wanted</em> </b> <em> to show you that our strength combined would bring Adrestia to heights she has not seen in ages. I did not expect anything handed. I wanted to earn it. I wanted to earn your recognition more than anything else in the world— </em></p>
<p>—Sometimes, furiously, even to the bloody Marquis Vestra: <em> I know now why you are so dogged in your devotion, but my reading of your character remains the same: you are her pet. I refuse to believe there were no other options but </em> <b> <em>this.</em> </b>)</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hubert von Vestra has done Ferdinand one grand service, however. There still lies, on the edges of his memory, an old conversation when his bravado still had meaning: <em> it is my duty to guide her</em>, Ferdinand had declared to his disinterested senior, <em> to give her frank advice when she is on the wrong course of action. </em></p>
<p>He has been more and less frank in what feels like dozens of different ways, in several levels of ire. But in the end, only five of those declarations remain, none of them to the emperor or her shadow.</p>
<p>If… <em>Edelgard</em> has not listened to his words, not once… If he is not worth listening to, not now, not in her grand scheme… Then she will speak through her actions, and he will speak through his, and spare his words for those that might listen.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>By the seventh day, Ferdinand has walked out of his manse, his ancestral home, for the last time. On a borrowed steed named Sirius, face obscured by a borrowed hunting cap, he has run out of Aegir for good.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It is raining when Ferdinand realizes he is not the only one who has learned to run.</p>
<p>His own run, to date, has not been easy. His first aim had been to find people to send his final letters as Ferdinand von Aegir, then to find what remained of any small battalions on Aegir’s coast that might have faith in him as a commander. </p>
<p>They had no goal, not at first, and barely enough men to be more than a bee for the emperor to swat at.</p>
<p>Five years on has changed very little, but Ferdinand knows he no longer has the luxury of dawdling nor looking back.</p>
<p>Before the nightwatchman’s yell can pierce through the whole of their meager encampment, before Ferdinand has retired to polish the dents in his borrowed armor, and just as the first drops of rain fall after the clouds rumble with warning—just before this, swiftly:</p>
<p>A white horse in the night, hooves muddied, rider shrouded and all but hugging the neck of their mount. Not for lack of experience, but for haste. While Ferdinand’s hand hovers at the hilt of the sword against his hip, a voice cuts through the confusion with pleas that strike some chord within and gives him pause.</p>
<p>Despite the rain, the rider pushes their hood away, and at once Ferdinand’s gaze meets the story gray of Bernadetta, eyes misty, cheeks flushed, breathing hard and talking fast but, suddenly, so starkly, full of <em> relief. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>If there are tears of relief spilling onto his cheeks, then they’re near-indistinguishable from the weeping clouds.</p>
<p>“I found you!” </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>IX.</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aside from the dust, the threadbare linens sitting unmade on the bed, and the wood and stone wearing its age far more than Ferdinand remembers, his old room in the monastery looks nearly the same. In his mind, when he’d pushed the heavy oak doors open, the appearance would be far more haggard: a bed or desk overturned, sheets torn and limp at the floor—a ghost, a corpse, a—</p>
<p>Ah. <em> No</em>.</p>
<p>He does not want to linger on possibilities. Such thinking is a place he has trained his mind not to tread, even as it betrays him on sleepless nights. But something twists in his chest, the dullest of blades as he sees the haunted traces of a man five years younger in the skeletal remains of his academy life.</p>
<p>Ferdinand does not know how long he spends standing there. He does not realize how heavily he leans against the doorway until he feels a tremor in his knees.</p>
<p>There is a travel bag slung over his shoulder, which has long since gone numb, slouched and braced against old wood. The old nunnery is far more suited to his meager standing army, and it serves to reason, for the sake of morale, their commander should be with them in turn. They are good soldiers who have stood at his side, even as their morale has faltered with their numbers, and they deserve…</p>
<p>No, they <em> demand </em> his presence. Demand a present leader who can still hold his chin high, and who does not need to lean against the door of a dorm that no longer belongs to him anymore than it does any soldier here.</p>
<p>There is an old, rusted gauntlet in the center of the floor. It does not have a twin. At one point, it might have, a right hand as steady as the left.</p>
<p>Ferdinand’s trembling knees take him elsewhere. He leaves his travel bag outside the door. Every step feels heavier, wood creaking more than he remembers it ever having done before, and for a cruel moment he imagines meeting his end by foot smashing clear through and falling into nothingness beyond the stairwell.</p>
<p>He makes it to the bottom of the steps alive.</p>
<p>The path he treads feels haunted nonetheless.</p>
<p>When Ferdinand’s feet stop, it is only for a sight so strange that his eyes, still downturned to the track he traces, are drawn upward without his knowledge, head canting to the side.</p>
<p>Bernadetta’s doors, thrown open to let the world inside. There’s an old quilt thrown atop one of the open doors—to air out, he assumes. Better than throwing it on the floor.</p>
<p>He knows better than to enter without knocking, but he sees her startle, back away off to the side, at the sound of footsteps on stone before his knuckles manage to rap against oak.</p>
<p>“<em>Who’s th</em>—oh! Oh. It’s only you, Ferdinand.”</p>
<p>It is <em> cruel </em> to say that the years have been kind to Bernadetta. There is no kindness left to be had in Fódlan. But… But if there <em> were </em> any, it was spared for her: a little taller, cheeks fuller, rosier, eyes no longer glistening with a sheen that threatens tears at every turn—no, only tired around the edges of her hypervigilance.</p>
<p>They are all <em> so tired. </em></p>
<p>“Only me,” he echoes plainly, trying to push some kind of mirth onto his face. Bernadetta leans against the back of her old desk chair, hands curled to her chest.</p>
<p>The last time they stood like this, Ferdinand spoke into wood. He could only imagine the expression hidden behind her doors, but he saw in his mind her furrowed brows, and eyes always seeking an exit like a mouse staring down the claws of a barn cat, until her voice finally did not tremble.</p>
<p>Her expression fills with… <em>something </em> that is very distant, staring beyond his shoulder and out into the world at his back.</p>
<p>His shadow stretches as the setting sun peeks from behind the clouds that have hung for most of the day. Silence stretches further, and it never does him any good, and Ferdinand’s left biting his tongue between his teeth as the forced smile makes his cheeks ache.</p>
<p>“I… missed this room, I think.”</p>
<p>Ferdinand almost misses Bernadetta’s words. As though they were back in class, or that one sunny morning underneath the Garland Moon, when things made sense. Or, maybe—maybe they are not meant for him, but merely another dialogue held to the air underneath Bernadetta’s breath.</p>
<p>Her voice has always been soft and such that he must slow down and exert himself to listen, and when he does, she keeps going.</p>
<p>“It’s… funny. I spent so much time wishing I was back at home, at first, and then…” A pause. He hears her swallow. “And then, when I had the <em> chance </em> to go back…”</p>
<p>Ferdinand is not naïve to where her sentence trails to. <em> She </em> hangs, unspoken, too painful to name.</p>
<p>“Do you not find it odd, being back in your old room after...?” he asks. He does not finish the rest of his thoughts, but leaves them implied: <em> after we stopped being children, five years ago.  </em></p>
<p>Ferdinand carefully steps past the threshold of her door, further than he’s ever been allowed inside. He’s not sure if <em> anyone </em> has ventured this far, sans its lone resident, and although Bernadetta watches him <em> sharply </em>—and Ferdinand watches her in kind, head bowed politely to show he means no impropriety—she does not dissuade him.</p>
<p>“Um.” Another pause, shorter this time, and there it is, her bottom lip between her teeth, “A… <em> A little. </em> Okay, <em> a lot</em>, but…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is it terrible of me for wanting a little space that’s mine again?”</p>
<p>Ferdinand lifts his chin in curiosity, and the only panic that sets into Bernadetta’s eyes is when it’s as though she realizes she has spoken her thoughts aloud. Ferdinand straightens, and the concern on his expression comes far more naturally than the veneer of a smile. “Oh, <em> it is</em>, isn’t it. It really is, especially because everything is <em> so</em>—”</p>
<p>“No.” Ferdinand’s voice is firm enough that it stills her histrionics before they ever bloom in full. “I mean… I do not think so. I… went to see my old room as well.”</p>
<p>This time, the smile that works onto his lips is smaller, but it takes no great effort on his part. Only the gentle settling of Bernadetta’s shoulders, brow drawn smooth again.</p>
<p>“May I offer a hand in tidying things up? I promise not to pry, but… I cannot say I have very much to unpack this time.”</p>
<p>The remark is dark and bitter in his mouth, but it strikes something within Bernadetta, enough to pull a little smile onto her worried lips.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to trouble you, Ferdinand…”</p>
<p>“It is no trouble.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The pause is slight, this time, while she nods, following an affirmation with, “...Yeah. Um, yes! Okay. Thank you.”</p>
<p>Ferdinand has no clear memory of his dear classmate, fidgeting in the middle of her room before smoothing the wrinkles of her tunic and unfurling herself from where she haunts, but it lingers in his mind long after he’s retreated to his own corner of their old keep.</p>
<p>It is the <em> contrast</em>, the skeleton of her former self against the surer silhouette she cuts now. It is sobering. It is quiet.</p>
<p>It is hopeful.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>If there is any kindness left in the world, Bernadetta shares it incidentally with him. Ferdinand spends his evening with an old handkerchief, a water basin, and the mirror in his room with an ugly crack running clean through it as he works years of grime away.</p>
<p>He stands in front of that mirror and remembers yellowed bruises and crisp lapels, and when the dull ache returns, he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and brings himself up to full height before they peel open again, seeking to bloom even half as bright as Bernadetta amidst the bones.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>X.</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is a stirring he <em> finally </em> recognizes the day their professor returns to them.</p>
<p>Their class has grown smaller when they next meet again. Fortune has smiled down on their little rebellion, for Caspar’s sudden reappearance after years without a word, to Linhardt’s successful flight from House Hevring, and then, quite unexpectedly, Byleth Eisner, back from the dead.</p>
<p>Ferdinand knows better than to stake importance on the tiniest of incidents, but warmth spreads through his body and, for the first time in ages, he feels whole. Their class is now six, plus their professor, plus the scattered remains of the Knights of Seiros, joining them now too, pulled back out of hiding with faith renewed.</p>
<p>It is not a war council, and it is a poor reunion, but they convene in their old classroom. Professor Byleth is righting the wobbly old desk near the untouched chalkboard, and if Ferdinand should feel the haunting sensation of ghosts, it is drowned at once by the happy hum of warm bodies in the cold room.</p>
<p>For old time’s sake they gather there, to reconstruct the past five year’s events, to the best ability of five collective memories.</p>
<p>Ferdinand’s old desk is wobbly, but he supposes he is lucky he has one at all. More than a few have been dragged and disassembled for firewood, else chopped into bits by force for the very same reasons. The bench groans under him, but it feels nice to sit and observe: the light back in Dorothea’s eyes for the first time in ages. Linhardt, only a trace of a yawn as he wonders aloud the chances of surviving a fall down a chasm no one has ever climbed out of alive.</p>
<p>There is a trace of purple flitting at the edge of his gaze after a moment, and when Ferdinand turns his head to see Bernadetta leaning against the wall, she’s watching with relief etched into the small curve of her lips.</p>
<p>When that relieved gaze meets his, he smiles back, and without thinking patting the old spot on the bench reserved for two.</p>
<p>(He can’t quite put a name to what it does to his <em> nerves</em>, the seconds between her mouth agape at his actions—which he remembers to feel sheepish about, once he realizes what he’s gone and done—and when Bernadetta finally accepts her old spot next to him.)</p>
<p>“I… suppose this is where I am supposed to go, ‘Good morning, Bernadetta!’ but I am well aware it’s nearly sundown, and all of us have spent the day, together, so ‘Good evening, Bernadetta!’ is not quite right either.”</p>
<p>“Well, um… that just leaves… <em> Bernadetta?</em>” Voice grows deeper as she recites her own name, and it takes Ferdinand a moment to realize she’s doing an imitation of his own greeting. He feels color rise to his cheeks, but in the same instant her expression changes to one of horror at her own response. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that!”</p>
<p>Partially to diffuse, and partially because he is left without an idea of what to say, Ferdinand finds himself chuckling.</p>
<p>(It has its intended effect, at least, and the horrified expression melds away as cheeks puff into a grimace. <em> “Was it really that bad?” “Ah, no—please! I just—I did not expect such a pointed response!” </em>)</p>
<p>But after a pause, after the grimace fades away, there is a pause, then a return to a neutral expression, although Bernadetta is looking down at her lap, idly tracing the edge of the desk with her fingertips. “Um. Just… just <em> Bernie’s </em> fine, you know.”</p>
<p>“...Bernie.” Ferdinand echoes her carefully; the nickname is familiar to his ears but unfamiliar on his tongue, but it makes Bernadetta look up from her hands and at him. Something dances across her expression, nameless, but—</p>
<p>—but it looks happy. <em> More </em>than happy.</p>
<p>The same warmth that spread to his cheeks feels unrestrained, growing somewhere in his chest, albeit unseen. Ferdinand smiles.</p>
<p>“I will keep that in mind, for our next good morning.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ferdinand never made it to the archery range like he’d vowed to as a student. As the year wore out its welcome, their professor’s lesson plans were less generalized, and more towards focusing on what they <em> could </em> do, rather than where they struggled. From the Professor, it must have been a mercy. There is a part of Ferdinand that wants to call it an oversight, but that is not fair. All of them, together, were doing the best they could do.</p>
<p>His best, now, is his efforts in making sure that horses are shod and weapons remain sharp, which includes arrows for their archers. Typically, he will defer to the expertise of Ms. Nevrand, when he can, but time and hands are luxuries they do not always have, and Ferdinand offers all of it when he can, and most times when he cannot.</p>
<p>Some nights, he has plenty of the former. Those are nights of little sleep, of staring at maps and wartime miniatures until the whole of Fódlan blurs together under tired eyes. On those nights, his ceiling is hardly a reprieve.</p>
<p>So, he walks. He arrives at the archery range because that is where his feet choose to take him, and he almost jumps (and definitely <em> winces</em>) at the sound of an arrow embedding itself into its mark.</p>
<p>Ferdinand does not mean to disturb. The other occupant is adjacent to the old squires’ chambers that once housed hopeful minds, but now is little more than a pit with a target, dirt, and illuminated by moonlight.</p>
<p>He hears panting, light as it is, and he hangs behind in the shadow of a wall to watch.</p>
<p>When the bow is drawn again, poised to strike, there are arms bare in the moonlight, defined and taut, before the arrow flies. The distance is not great, not this late at night, and so the arrow hits the mark. It all looks effortless to Ferdinand.</p>
<p>Identity registers, not from the hiss of a monologue underneath breath, but from the particular way she bows her head when her arms go slack.</p>
<p>Ferdinand finds himself watching Bernadetta for far longer than he should, until he realizes his frustration is growing from squinting, trying to read her expressions in full.</p>
<p>Her head shoots up at the sound of his footsteps before Ferdinand thinks to announce his presence, and before he can note the peculiarities of it all—they are alone, at night, and she is armed, and incidents of all sorts could occur—there is relief in the way Bernadetta’s shoulders drop after little more than a sudden shriek.</p>
<p>“I… I realize now this was not the best way to approach while you are engaged in practice. You have my most sincere apologies,” he starts, quickly, hands raised in front of him and pausing mid-step. “I—I was not… thinking clearly. I do not think I have been for the past several days.”</p>
<p>Her expression is murky at best, but her hands wrap around her bow, almost wringing against the leather of its grip. “N-No, it’s fine! I’ll leave, I don’t know what <em> I </em> was thinking, so.”</p>
<p>“It is rather unusual to see you out of your room, especially this late into the night,” Ferdinand agrees. The chuckle he tries to force dies a weak, painful death, doubly so when Bernadetta winces.</p>
<p>“I know,” she murmurs, and turns away. “B-But… <em>oh,</em> I don’t know. I just felt...”</p>
<p>“Felt?”</p>
<p>“Restless.” A beat. “Scared. I… I know I’m never going to be a strong fighter, or even a good one, but sometimes I have—no, no it’s <em> stupid</em>.”</p>
<p>Ferdinand ventures the chance to step closer, pausing one pace away, hand able to reach out and rest against her shoulder. He wants to—but knows better, now. “Bernadetta.”</p>
<p>He watches her shoulders rise, then fall, and then watches <em> her </em> as she turns on her heels to face him again. He expects her to flee.</p>
<p>“I cannot sleep, and I fear if I do not wear myself out somehow, I never will.”</p>
<p>Tentatively, a hand reaches out towards her, palm open. “And I am woefully lacking in your area of expertise. Would you be willing to teach me a thing or two, so that I may rest?”</p>
<p>Bernadetta’s grip is strong, like he knows it to be, but Ferdinand does not realize how holds his breath until her hand twines around his.</p>
<p>She says nothing, for a long moment, focus downturned to their hands, and just as he thinks to breach the silence, she—pushes it away, and retreats into herself.</p>
<p>“I—Not that I don’t want to help, but—no, no, I don’t think I could. Teach you. Or be of any help. Actually, just forget you saw me here!”</p>
<p>There it is: the disappointment, the need to flee, the flash of fear he’d seen right before he felt a sharp pain shoot through his wrist—</p>
<p>“No—No teaching, then,” Ferdinand concedes, and steps another pace backward for good measure. It takes all the nerve in him not to stumble over his words further. “But… Would you mind terribly if I watched for a little while? If that displeases you, I will go without further hassle, but…”</p>
<p>No good explanation comes as his words die on the tip of his tongue.</p>
<p>Bernadetta does not retreat. Both of her hands are back to wringing the leather grip.</p>
<p>“I… mean. I’m not very good company either, and it’s kind of hard to… umm, talk and aim, and…”</p>
<p>“I promise, I will be over there, as silent as a mouse! You have my word, Bernadetta.”</p>
<p>It is a quiet victory that her concession feels less reluctant than it ever has before. Maybe, for a moment, there is a flash of a smile on her lips.</p>
<p>Ferdinand goes back to resting against the old stone wall, still in his day clothes, and watches Bernadetta lose herself in her practice again. There is something rhythmic in her movements, and when nearly every arrow hits the dead-center, something comes over her. Not quite pride, but relief.</p>
<p>The warm feeling from before, taking root in his chest, continues to grow, a stubborn little thing.</p>
<p>He does break his promise eventually, if only to help her dislodge the practice arrows, to drag the target back into storage, under the shadow of the old knights’ meeting quarters with the rest of its brethren.</p>
<p>When Ferdinand asks to come back the next evening, Bernadetta balks but does not refuse. He is not sure if walks away any more tired than before, but his steps feel a little lighter.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>(The evening after next, Ferdinand sits, Bernadetta waves, and there is a tentative smile on her lips as she begins her practice, and his mind is gloriously quiet as the silence stretches comfortably.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bernadetta finally talks, underneath the shadows of Garreg Mach, a week after their arrangement began.</p>
<p>Whispered in rapidfire: “Some nights I’m scared that I’ll make a mistake, and one of our friends will pay for it, or—or m-my mother, she… she’s still in Enbarr, and my father is on house arrest, but one day, what if they found me, a-and… Ferdinand, I don’t want to go back! A-And some nights I sit at my desk, or on my bed, and I can’t fall asleep, and… I try to make something, and I used to write, but nothing—<em>nothing</em> comes of it. I can’t <em>make</em> <em>anything</em> anymore, and it was the only thing I was good at, and now… now! All I can do is fight, and I’m barely able to do that!”</p>
<p>Something in her breaks. Ferdinand can see it pass across her face, now that they stand close.</p>
<p>They stand there in silence, once she’s paused to breathe—it sounds more like desperate heaving—and all he can think to do is carefully reach for her hand.</p>
<p>Bernadetta’s body goes rigid, then slouches hopelessly against the cold stone on their backs, and her hand squeezes back.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I… spend so many nights, fearing for the day we will march upon the Imperial Capital. I know that the Em—” voice catches in Ferdinand’s throat, and it aches to continue, but he must, “—that <em> Edelgard </em> will not yield unless by force. She has never once yielded to me, and in the twilight hours, I wonder if it is foolish of me to think I can make her do it <em> now</em>.”</p>
<p>Bernadetta’s head still hangs low, from the corner of his eyes, staring down at her feet, but she nods in understanding, if not outright commiseration.</p>
<p>“I… If anyone could do it, though. It would be… the Professor, and you.”</p>
<p>Bernadetta’s voice is so quiet, Ferdinand wonders, not for the first time, if her response was imagined. But when his head rises, she is looking up at him, squeezing his hand a little tighter.</p>
<p>“Um. I won’t… I won’t tell anyone, so. Don’t worry. I know you have a lot on your plate. I’m sorry to bother you with stuff like this.”</p>
<p>“Bernadetta,” Ferdinand corrects, squeezing her hand in kind, “You have never been—<em>and will never be</em>—a bother.”</p>
<p>She holds his gaze in full for the first time he can remember. The smile on her lips is fragile, like hope, but it is <em> there.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>XI.</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Once the feeling takes root, Ferdinand cannot help but feel its presence in the dismal lull of every skirmish, won or lost, when he sees in the distance a sliver of familiar purple among the brush. </p>
<p>(Bernadetta has long since made trembling in the bushes her biggest strength, so small, so nimble, that no one can ever catch a trace of her before they are pierced all at once by a volley of arrows from on high.)</p>
<p>But he recognizes it from simpler days, albeit in a more juvenile form:</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>—<em>in the gardens, where she had volunteered to tend often, much the way Ferdinand did the stables. No complaint, but a careful eye, and her newfound voice raised when he had almost overwatered a particularly hardy species of flower used to long droughts and unused to his overabundant eagerness. Bernadetta had scared herself as much as she’d startled him, but Ferdinand had only smiled, sheepish, and she carefully moved his hand away and showed him how deep the roots went. </em></p>
<p>
  <em> “Verbena,” she’d supplied when Ferdinand asked. There is a tenderness to the way her hands move to cover the roots back in full, and how they linger, feather-light touch to their tiny clusters of petals. “Um. Some older books call them Seiro’s Tears, because there’s an old story… um, it doesn’t really matter. The story also… mentioned that her blood ran green to bless the earth. So. Who knows why?” </em>
</p>
<p><em> “Such a sad name for a pretty thing,” Ferdinand remembers sighing, and leaving it at that</em>—</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>—<em>in the monthly inter-class combat tournaments, one day late into the Wyvern Moon, where Bernadetta had been nominated to represent their house by their professor. Less a combat tournament and more a test of skill, as targets were dragged to the middle of the training grounds, Dorothea and Petra had flanked their near-inconsolable friend, all but trembling with nerves.  </em></p>
<p>
  <em> (Ferdinand had tried to offer wisdom, although a particular look from Dorothea had him bowing his head and biting his tongue.) </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Their own songstress must have worked some magic, however: the scattered audience holding their breath, all three representatives taking their places, and all at once, some sort of calm steeling Bernadetta’s nerves before her arrow flew true, a bulls-eye if Ferdinand had ever seen one. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Bernadetta was first off the field, fleet-footed as she is, but he saw the look in her eyes, and the grin, and the accolades from her cheering classmates, his voice one of many among their haphazard chorus. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> When he had asked, the next morning after their routine greeting, he asked with a chuckle: “Whatever did you picture that had you so sure of your aim?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Oh, uh. Dorothea told me to imagine everyone in their...” Bernadetta cleared her throat awkwardly before continuing, “B-But that didn’t work, so she told me to just pretend the target was someone standing between me and my door.” </em>
</p>
<p><em> Ferdinand’s mouth hung agape, but Bernadetta had laughed quietly, and he’d been struck by how cute the sound of her joy was, after knowing her fear so well</em>—</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>—<em>in the stables, his world torn asunder, all but clinging against Camus for support. He had heard footsteps, and his name, and then nothing. And nothing. </em></p>
<p>
  <em> And when he looked up, he could barely see Bernadetta, running a hand down Camus’s back, ever careful to obscure her face. </em>
</p>
<p><em> “I… I won’t tell anyone you’re in here.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “A-And I didn’t see anything. No… No one likes being watched when they’re crying.”</em>—</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A fondness, the same he’d felt for all his classmates. A responsibility, until he learned better—and at times, even after—to keep a watchful eye on her.</p>
<p>It was not necessary. Bernadetta von Varley had blossomed without his supervision, his aid, and right under his nose. Her roots, it seems, were always far deeper than his own. No, not his responsibility—by all grace, never was, as all that was his has met some terrible fate. </p>
<p>A fondness, albeit the word seems so dull to describe the relief he finds in stormy gray and deep violet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It is by Her divine grace that Manuela Casagranda yet lives, and above that, has her expertise and sharp eye joining their effort. In the midst of the chaos, there is finally time to talk to his idol, and so he does, if only for fleeting moments of their free time.</p>
<p>“Ferdinand,” she sighs, that deep, <em> knowing </em> kind that makes him feel sheepish and seventeen again. “Not yourself today, are you.”</p>
<p>He learns early, when she had finally agreed to talk over tea, they both share a fondness for poetry. One of the few places yet untouched by time has been Garreg Mach’s library, and Ferdinand takes the chance when it presents itself: readings, when they can, or original compositions when the words of others are not enough to lock the outside world away.</p>
<p>Manuela’s voice never once wavers as she speaks the words aloud, imbuing the words on page with a musicality that strips those bonds away and makes them soar.</p>
<p>The first time, he is too awestruck to compose properly, lulled to happier times when all spotlights fell on Manuela Casagranda, and every crescendo had a happy end.</p>
<p>The times after...</p>
<p>“My apologies,” Ferdinand says, closing his eyes for a moment of repose as he does. He thinks of the subject of his own selection—a lady, so distant from the narrator as to be nigh unreachable. That distance, a challenge as much as an ailment to a lovesick heart.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ferdinand thinks of Bernadetta, and her hesitant smile blooming in the quiet of nighttime shadows, and starts again.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>XII.</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ferdinand spends the next several days paying careful attention, lest any detail slip his notice:</p>
<p>Bernadetta prefers sweeter tea blends, and so, with a bit of haggling, he finds a mixture of honey and dried fruit that smells heavenly. He has very little, now, but one of his few cherished possessions is a tea set—a gift, Gloucester-made, from its imminent heir early in the school year, when they first became acquainted. He chooses a night (cloudy skies, threatening raining after a small skirmish as they carefully push inwards toward Fort Merceus, bastion of Adrestia’s might) so that they may have some seclusion, and a convenient excuse to stay indoors, not that Bernadetta ever shies away from one.</p>
<p>And he lingers at his mirror, fiddling with his hair that seems to grow unrulier by the day before swiftly departing to meet at the old squires’ range.</p>
<p>Ferdinand sits restlessly, turning every possible sentence over in his head so much he almost misses the distant rumble of thunder not ten minutes into their silent practice, at least not till lightning splits across the sky.</p>
<p>It startles them both, but Ferdinand is on his feet in an instant, jogging not to Bernadetta, but to her training target.</p>
<p>“Ah, it may be best to make our way inside, Bernadetta—” he starts, just as expected, until he feels the icy-cold trail of a raindrop down the back of his neck. Ferdinand bites his tongue, but shoulders rise in surprise before he can stop himself.</p>
<p>“Uh-oh. Um, yeah, good idea!” (He’s grateful Bernadetta’s wince is at least sympathetic.)</p>
<p>The work of two is not enough to beat nature’s whims, and while they are barely in the downpour directly, they still come away soaked, ducking into the covered walkways that lead them back up to the entrance hall, shivering in the summertime shower.</p>
<p>It is not elegant, and Ferdinand has to push wet hair out of his face before he can collect himself enough to ask:</p>
<p>“Would you—would you like some tea?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Bernadetta,” Ferdinand starts, once the tea has settled to pleasantly warm, and neither of them are shivering in the dining hall. They sit alone, candelabra burning at their side, sugar bowl and teapot between them. Bernadetta’s shoulders are bowed somewhat, looking down into the depths of her cup until Ferdinand calls her name. “I have been thinking of something as of late, and I would like to tell you a story, if I may.”</p>
<p>He watches each emotion dance across her face: hesitation with its furrowed brow, fear when hesitation is smoothed away. A moment of her bottom lip worried between her teeth, as if expecting bad news, but she relents, “Oh? Okay, I like stories. Go on.”</p>
<p>So he does, with interjection:</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> A frightening tale, a whispered rumor. A daughter of a noble house, never once stepping foot outside her room, much less her own territory. An enigma to the outside world, the world itself anathema to her. Toiling, day in and day out, to make ghoulish, cursed dolls to inflict pain upon those who scorned her. A boy, young and naïve to the world around him and his place in it, mistaking those unsubstantiated rumors for fact. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> (She sounds pretty frightening, but… I think I relate.) </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> That girl was you. A daughter of House Varley. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> (What? I don’t make dolls to curse people—) </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> A wedding that never came to be. A missed connection, torn apart by a tangled thicket of lies that concealed what could have been. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> What could have been, he adds, a very beautiful thing. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> (And they aren’t creepy dolls. I only make cute things—pitcher plants, a-and the little flytraps—!) </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Ah, yes. Cute. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> (But… so… um… if I follow…? Once upon a time… you—!) </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Once upon a time… well. I suppose it does not matter now. My parents are long gone, and their whims are no longer our own. The negotiations may have fallen through, but… if they had not, they would be invalid now regardless. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> (I… guess so.) </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The silence, after the fact, is deafening. Ferdinand finds himself staring hard into his muddled reflection in the final dregs of his tea, teaspoon causing ripples to distort his unseemly reflection further. Bernadetta is quiet, her hands wrapped around and staring hard into her own.</p>
<p>The same unreadable expression, her thoughts so far away that he cannot hope to close the distance. Ferdinand had not expected an answer, but had at least hoped for more than silence.</p>
<p>Where Lysithea had broken the quiet, Bernadetta seems comforted by it, in some small part.</p>
<p>Foolishly, he moves to break it, thinking of scared little girls and swift escapes and a garden on a gray afternoon: “I—I know that was not a particularly kind story, but if you do not mind, I have a… well. A memory, this time. A true one.”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“When I was a young boy, I attended a funeral for the late Count Varley. <em> For</em>… your grandfather. Do you happen to remember much of that day?”</p>
<p>Bernadetta’s expression is thoughtful, and the way her head cants to one side and her cheeks puff in thought bring back some measure of comfort to the discussion.</p>
<p>“A… little. Why?”</p>
<p>“Because… I ended up wandering through the gardens, and ran into a strange girl I had never seen before. She never introduced herself, and she apologized profusely on behalf of <em> my own </em> clumsiness that sent the two of us into the bushes.” There is an apology in Ferdinand’s own small little smile at the memory. “But I never quite knew… well, what she was doing in the first place! Or what she did not want me to see.”</p>
<p>It takes a moment, but finally, something fills Bernadetta’s expression, a recognition—a long-buried memory, back from the grave? “Wait—that was <em> you?!</em>”</p>
<p>“That was indeed!”</p>
<p>“Wow, I… I hadn’t thought about that in years.”</p>
<p>“May I ask what you were doing, then? When I found you that day.”</p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<p>The distance in her eyes is back again.</p>
<p>“I… was. Holding a funeral of my own, I guess.”</p>
<p>“For… your grandfather?” Ferdinand is careful when he asks, and in the seconds afterward, when Bernadetta is shaking her head wordlessly, he realizes he’s holding his breath.</p>
<p>“For… for an old friend. He… <em> was </em> the gardener’s boy.”</p>
<p>Ferdinand’s idle stirring stops, teaspoon against saucer, hand resting on the table. He holds his breath as he carefully reaches across for hers.</p>
<p>“You… do not have to tell me, if you do not wish to.”</p>
<p>“No, I… It was a long time ago. He wouldn’t have had a proper funeral, and… something bad happened to him.” A sharp breath, so painful, her voice so small. “B-Because of me.”</p>
<p>She does not pull away her hand, and although fingers tense and curl underneath his palm, she stays.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It all lines up, and Ferdinand’s blood feels chilled, as if doused by the rain outside: final rites. A spade and a flower. <em> Devotion</em>, to a friendship painfully cut short.</p>
<p><em> Humbled </em> is not the half of it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Ferdinand averts his gaze, for a little while. Not one likes to be watched while they cry.)</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>XIII.</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The ceiling that bears his vacant stares does Ferdinand no favors that night. Not when his chest blooms with embarrassment and ache in equal measure, and he is left thinking of overcast gardens and the flower, now returned to its rightful owner. He hopes that one day the knit flower will be buried on Varley soil, or what remains. A proper burial.</p>
<p>Not all of their friends will have that same luxury.</p>
<p>Ferdinand rises. He does not look at his reflection as he passes, merely pulls on an overcoat and steels himself for the rain, now a calm drizzle outside, occasionally broken by peals of thunder that pound in his ears.</p>
<p>The thunder has nothing on the pounding of his heart, the only thing he <em> can </em> hear.</p>
<p>The old greenhouse is not far, and while rain hardly soaks him this time, there are cracks in the glass from years of disrepair that let the downpour in.</p>
<p>Ferdinand remembers the verbena, thinks of Bernadetta’s kind hands clasped in prayer, or tending to soil, or aiming true against the leather grip of her bow. He almost winces as he uproots one cluster of the plant, spindly silver roots glistening wet with soil in the moonlight, and vows to break each stem close instead of simply tugging until they come loose.</p>
<p>It is a bouquet hardly worthy of its intended, but he shields the tiny pink flowers from the rain the best he can.</p>
<p>This time, when he sees the flickers of candlelight underneath Bernadetta’s threshold, knuckles rap against the wood.</p>
<p>A sliver of light falls against his face—Bernadetta is hesitant, as ever, to open the door fully to let anyone in.</p>
<p>“Ferdinand?” she whispers, and from the eye he can see peeking through the crack, confusion reigns.</p>
<p>“I… Yes. It is me. And I am once again unable to greet you with a proper good morning or good evening, as we have long since passed them both.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So, I… <em> Bernadetta.</em>” A pause. A fragment of a memory, of her smile, and he carefully tests: “—<em>Bernie</em>. May I come in?”</p>
<p>The rain fills their silence, this time stretched so thin Ferdinand feels his heart in danger of snapping in two. But Bernadetta grants him admittance, eventually, and he bows his head gratefully as he enters, straying no further than the doors once they are at his back, so not to bring the weather in.</p>
<p>Bernadetta retreats to her desk, to the warmth of her candles. There is charcoal and paper spread out at her desk, and it is only then Ferdinand realizes there is something fidgeting between her fingers—purple, and small, with frayed threads making a deep purple bloom.</p>
<p>His eyes widen, but—but before he goes any further, presumes anything else (as his presumptions have been proven wrong at every single turn) he offers her the bouquet. It droops slightly from the weight of the rain.</p>
<p>“I… am afraid that in my haste, I have forgotten the final part of my story tonight. And I… well, I wanted to apologize for my oversight.”</p>
<p>Bernadetta’s gaze flits from the bouquet to the flower in her hand, to his expression, which he hopes is a smile that is friendly, and not betraying the heat he feels suddenly covering his cheeks.</p>
<p>“These are… wait, are these from the greenhouse?”</p>
<p>“They are, yes. I remember you pointing them out to me, a long time ago, and I… found them fitting.”</p>
<p>“Fitting?” Brow furrows, and bottom lip threatens to jut out. “Um… you… had a story?”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes!” Relief washes when Bernadetta tentatively plucks the bouquet from his hand, gentle touch brushing against each individual flower in the clusters.</p>
<p>Ferdinand’s gaze remains level on hers. </p>
<p>“I.. just felt it was remiss of me to mention that… that the naïve boy who passed judgment on that doll-cursing princess was wrong, in every way he could be. And, that I am glad that we met, harrowing circumstances that they were, and that we became friends like this. Because you are, and have been, a very dear friend to me.”</p>
<p>A beat passes, and then another, before he hears a soft <em> Oh </em> underneath Bernadetta’s breath, and then, finally, a shy little smile.</p>
<p>“I’m… glad we met here, too.” The bouquet is cradled against her chest, as though holding something precious, and Ferdinand feels that indescribable fondness take root between his ribs once more. “I don’t think we would have gotten this close otherwise.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And…” </p>
<p>“And…?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(What can he do, but smile back?)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Had I known you, I would have accepted the proposal.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The reaction is muted, at first, Bernadetta still letting her fingertips roam over the verbena before her shoulders rise, and her expression changes to one of pure surprise. There is color rising to her cheeks as she sputters, “<em>What?! </em> Um, why—did you, uh, what would you…”</p>
<p>“Nothing! A-And I am not—I am not suggesting anything now! I only…”</p>
<p>He had imagined, before tonight, this conversation going a dozen different ways, each of them pleasant—<em>none </em> of them this mortifying.</p>
<p>Ferdinand’s cheeks burn in kind, and it is his turn to bow his head, focusing hard at his feet as to not trip over his words, for all the good it does. “If… If I had gotten to know you—the real you—I would have been happy to…”</p>
<p>Something prickles at his skin: a stormy gaze set on his expression.</p>
<p>It takes an eternity for Ferdinand to lift his head. Bernadetta is looking at him, sweet viola missive and verbena against her chest, rosy cheeks, lips trembling, but finally landing back into that special smile, fleeting as it sometimes is.</p>
<p>“I…” she starts, and while there is a tremor to her voice, she pushes forward, and rises from her seat. “I’m… not that interesting. And I still… like the peace and quiet of my room, and I don’t think that’s going to change… ever.</p>
<p>“But… But! And as long as you knock first, a-and… give me time to myself…”</p>
<p>Ferdinand is not sure what to make of Bernadetta when she stands at her desk side, her eyes falling away from his face to the verbena. But a hand reaches out, and with the same tenderness that buried a friend, that hardens enough to let her arrows fly true, she reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind one of his ears, verbena in place behind it.</p>
<p>“I… like you. And your company. And I think I want to get to know the, um, boy from the gardens better. If he would have me.”</p>
<p>Before her hand retreats, Ferdinand catches it tenderly, to bring her knuckles to his lips, and Bernadetta is smiling at him in full.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>(<em>Verbena</em>, he remembers, looking through the library that very evening. Symbolic of the tears shed by Saint Seiros herself, of her divine sorrow cleansing the holy ground at her feet. A flower of protection, of romance, and of the sweetest of memories.)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>it's finally done! this has been quite an adventure to write, but I think I'm proud of this one.</p>
<p>(don't take ferdinand's condemnation of edelgard and hubert as my own, as I am literally formatting this fic drinking coffee from an edelgard mug, and I am a black eagles fan first and a person second.)</p>
<p>one again, a special thank you to my wonderful gf and beta, sami. without their keen eye, this fic would have lacked any polish or tense consistency. my endless love and thanks!</p>
<p>for those interested, author's notes for this fic will be up shortly on my fic archive, narcisoanasui @ dreamwidth!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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